In the Long Run

There is a children’s fable about a poor, starving mother and child who receive a magic porridge pot that continues to produce porridge on the command of “Cook little pot, cook!” until told to “Stop, little pot, stop!” This week I was living my own version of the fable, only with a “magic” soup pot.

My Key Limey has broadened his culinary talents beyond his famous expertise with key lime pies. He also has become quite adept at making savory soups. A week ago he made a creamy Ham-Potato-Broccoli-Cheese recipe that tantalized the taste buds and satiated the stomach. I was delighted to see that there was quite a lot of soup left over in the soup pot after our first meal of it. “There’s dinner for Monday and Tuesday nights…yes!” I reveled.

And so it was. I came home from work on Monday and Tuesday nights, chanted the magic words, “Cook, little pot, cook” as I filled two heaping bowls of soup and popped them into the microwave oven. We feasted sumptuously on soup, supplemented with bread and fruit.

On Wednesday night, I came home from work, and looked hopefully, but somewhat apologetically at my husband. “Is it all right if we have soup again? I know we’ve had it all week….” “Sure! I like that soup!” he responded congenially. Cook, little pot, cook!

Late that same evening, I discovered a message on my answering machine. I had missed a call from the missionaries confirming their dinner engagement with us the next night, which somehow I had failed to note in my calendar. What to do? I had to work until nearly six the next day, and they were due to arrive shortly thereafter. There was no time to make a nice dinner.

But of course! Cook, little pot, cook! On Thursday night I quickly added more broccoli to the magic pot, because by now, there was little broccoli, and fewer potato chunks left in the creamy gruel. Still, our guests seemed quite satisfied with the slightly plain Broccoli Cheese soup, and the Monster Sandwich that we served. And praise be—there was still soup in the pot!

By Friday afternoon, I was actually looking forward to soup for dinner. After an intense aerobics class, I thought that a warm shower and warm soup would definitely hit the spot. So I was quite disappointed when my Key Limey doubted that there would be enough soup for both of us. I ran to the refrigerator and opened the door. There sat the pot in its usual place of honor on the middle shelf. I pulled out the magic soup pot. It felt sort of…kind of…well, maybe…just a little heavy. I closed my eyes. Cook, little pot, cook!

I removed the lid, and triumphantly ladled out two generous servings of soup, which even overflowed the bowls as they simmered in the microwave oven! I sadly acknowledged, though, that the ladle was finally scraping the bottom of the pot. But wait! The dregs of the magic soup pot--a few broccoli florets, two potato chunks, one sliver of ham, all floating languidly in the savory sauce--were enough for one last delectable, though meager, serving!

I ate that last serving the next day, slowly, and almost reverently, after coming in from a cold run in the biting wind. Stop, little pot, stop, I thought, as I mused on the wholesome goodness of the Seven-Day Soup. It had nourished my body with comfort and calories for a whole week.

As sorry as I was to see the end to that soup, I noticed with eager anticipation just hours later, that my Key Limey was soaking a big pot of beans on the stove in the kitchen. The magic soup pot would yet live on…quite possibly, happily ever after!

My friend and I were shocked by the gaunt, shrunken face of the woman sleeping in the hospital bed. Just two weeks earlier when we had been there, this same woman, Ruth, had alertly asked us to bring her some Taco Bell tacos (“hard shells, please…I don’t like those soft tortillas…and no lettuce!”) because she didn’t like the food served at the care center in which she resided.

Now here she was, after a rapid decline, just hours from death. Although Ruth had not been a close friend, she was an acquaintance with whom I had visited from time to time, and had tried to support during a difficult period of her life that had included the death of a close family member and several operations.

I was not surprised to hear that Ruth passed away the next day. Later, I visited with her adult children, whom I had never met before. I had volunteered to help them write the eulogy for her funeral. The family enjoyed the time together, sharing memories and anecdotes, both humorous and sublime. Writing the eulogy was not an easy task. A few short paragraphs seem paltry when trying to summarize a person’s character, courage, and eclectic interests.

The responsibilities I’ve faced incident to Ruth’s passing have caused me to contemplate life and death, gratification and regrets, and the difference between vital, important life events, and superficial, transitory experiences. It seemed appropriate that today was a sunny Easter morning. The glorious message of the atonement and resurrection are especially poignant and clear to me: “I know that my Redeemer lives! He lives, my Savior, still the same.”

For several days this last week, Eliot Spitzer’s problems were headline news. The media eagerly reported the shocking saga of the fierce crimebuster’s own criminal fiasco, his resignation from office, and possible litigation against him. The factual tale is genuinely headline newsworthy, and undoubtedly, reporters and audience alike are incredulous at the arrogant duplicity of Spitzer’s self-defeating behavior.

But what is not newsworthy is the endless analysis and interpretation burgeoning from the scandal. Every news anchor and commentator has expressed his or her opinions, and, in addition, presented an array of “experts” who have also pontificated and postured. The main questions debated seem to be: “What would make Spitzer do it?” and “Why does his wife stand by him?” Some of the commentary is absurd, as when one analyst suggested that Silda Spitzer was to blame for her husband’s misdeeds. These “news stories” are in reality just salacious speculation and sensationalism. The anchors and reporters do not possess the professional credentials to make judgments, nor do the “experts” have all the background and relevant information necessary to diagnose.

Report the crime, report any charges filed, report a trial and a verdict. Those stories are newsworthy. But leave the rest to Spitzer and his family to work out. It is none of our business, and it should not be the business of the news media.

Big Guy came home for a day this weekend. He and his girlfriend, Rachel, arrived late Friday night, and then left Sunday morning. He wasn’t here long, but it was enough time to notice a change or two about him.

Big Guy has new prescription wire rim glasses that make him look very distinguished and even more GQ-ly handsome (if that were ever a possibility)! He looks older to me, and more astute and capable somehow. He, however, is not as concerned with his new appearance as he is happy about his increased vision.

Big Guy was very solicitous of us, “the ‘rents”, as well as of Rachel. I saw him opening car doors and restaurant doors for her. He was careful to acquire appropriate clothing and supplies for her for their caving expedition. He politely thanked us numerous times for our hospitality, and apologized profusely for the brevity of the trip, and his inability to spend more time with us. Now, it’s not that Big Guy hasn’t always minded his manners. It’s just that this time his etiquette seemed a very natural and automatic characteristic of a genuinely sincere person.

He greeted and talked to old high school friends and acquaintances with good-natured conversation, and spoke comfortably and easily with several adults at Church. I didn’t hear any sarcastic jesting or sour cynicism so typical of many teenagers. I’m sure there must have been some youthful joking and banter when I wasn’t present, but I give him high marks for being well-spoken.

Just a week or so ago, Big Guy received the news that he will enter the Missionary Training Center on May 14^th in preparation for his mission to Portland, Oregon. It seems to me, as a proud mother, that he has been gaining in maturity his entire college freshman year. I am confident that he will present himself well as a representative of the Church.

As Big Guy left this morning to go back to college, I experienced a poignant pang, knowing that when he, my youngest child, next leaves home, it will be for two years. It will not be easy. But I am gratified to know that he has successfully developed many of the life skills that mark the change from childhood to adult.

My granddaughter, and her royal cortege, i.e. my son and daughter-in-law, visited for a few short days this last week. Just prior to celebrating her first birthday, The Little Princess began taking her first wobbly steps. Each day her balance and coordination improves, and it’s obvious that she loves her new walking skill, and the freedom and independence that it brings her.

Walking allows her to get into a lot of trouble more quickly. Within 20 minutes of being in my house, she had torn four or five magazines to shreds, tried to walk down the stairs, and then tried to shake down the gate we put up to block the stairs.

One day I had Firetop, as KL (Key Limey) calls her, in my office with me. She disdained the toys I had laid out for her, and began lurching around the room, looking for mischief. As is typical of any common baby, she has dumpster diver tendencies. She crouched over my trash basket, and very meticulously sorted through it, crumpling and tearing the discarded papers. She found a printer cartridge package to be particularly interesting, and carefully examined it for about ten minutes. Back in the trash she happened upon some ABC (Already Been Chewed) gum and knew just what to do with it. She popped it in her mouth for royal mastication as her father sustained near-bites extricating it from her eight sharp baby teeth.

The Little Toddler Princess granted us daily audiences in which we were enchanted with her baby babble and infectious giggle. We didn’t mind the toys she scattered, the trash she dumped, the cupboards she ransacked, the food she cast to the floor from her high chair, or even the lion riding toy she abandoned that tripped up Grandpa in the dark. Anytime she toddles toward me, arms outstretched, with a big grin on her face, I’ll do her royal bidding.